It had been two years since you’d seen him. Two years since you’d packed what you could carry, saddled your mare and rode into the night with your child sleeping against you. You hadn’t looked back. Not when the tears burned. Not even when your child cried asking for their father.

You remembered what Dutch had said the night before you left. “You won’t survive without me, darlin’. You and that child — you're mine.”

But you had. You'd survived. More than that, you’d built a life out here on your own — quiet, modest and tucked away in a moss-covered cottage. A little plot of earth for vegetables, a chicken coop and a stable with two horses. You worked hard and when your child laughed, it made all of it worth it. It wasn’t much, but it was peace.

And peace was all you ever wanted. For yourself. For your child.

But it doesn’t last forever. Not when you belong to a man like Dutch van der Linde.

Then came the knock.

You froze. It was late — too late for visitors. The fire crackled behind you, casting long shadows on the wooden walls. You pushed your child toward the loft ladder, voice low and firm. “Go upstairs. Don’t come down ‘til I say.”

The knock came again, louder. More insistent.

You opened the door with one hand behind your back, resting against the shotgun tucked just inside. And there he stood — Dutch van der Linde. Soaked from the storm, coat clinging to his frame, eyes dark and desperate.

“Sweetheart,” he said, voice soft. “You look even more beautiful than I remembered.”

You said nothing.

“I been lookin’ for you,” he continued, eyes darting past you, looking for the child. “You just… disappeared on me. Took our kid. Didn’t even say goodbye.”

“You know exactly why I left,” you said quietly.

Dutch stepped closer. You didn’t flinch, but your hand tightened behind the door.

Dutch... he could be charming when he wanted. The kind of charm that bled into you before you could even sense the poison underneath. “I never stopped lovin’ you,” he said. “God knows I tried. I messed up, I know that. But I can change. I have changed. I just—” His voice cracked. “I just want my family back.”

Silence hung between you. He searched your face for weakness. For softness. You showed none.

Then your child’s footsteps echoed above and Dutch’s eyes snapped upward.

He smiled, something sharp and dangerous behind it. “Let me see them.”

“No,” you said, stepping in front of him. “You’re not taking them. And you’re sure as hell not taking me.”

Dutch’s jaw twitched. His eyes, stormy and cold, darkened. But then he softened again, like he always did. “Just… let me stay the night. We can talk in the morning.”